City Lights
by Loxare
Summary: Nightwing is worried. Today is a very important day and Red Hood missed their breakfast appointment. Actually, he's been missing for a week. But searching will have to wait. Scarecrow is up to something. Chapter 2 uploaded and rated M
1. Descent

"I don't see why you're worried Nightwing. This isn't the first time Hood has dropped off the radar."

Nightwing sighed. "Because Robin," for the _millionth_ time, "we were supposed to have breakfast together this morning."

"Tt." Robin shot off another line. They had been trawling through all of Gotham's East Side for most of the night, looking for any sign of Red Hood. One of their... "informants", said that he'd heard that someone knew a guy who had last seen the murderous vigilante down by the warehouse district, so that's where they were swinging off to now. "It's not like he hasn't skipped out on you before. I'm surprised he agreed to breakfast with you in the first place."

"Not this breakfast. He would have shown up for this breakfast." Dick had had everything planned out. He'd taken cooking lessons from Alfred for a month, and that was just for learning how to make the pancakes. He still burnt the bacon, but that was only because watching it cook was boring. His mind wandered, for a second, honestly, and by the time he looked back, it was black and crispy. Fruit was easier. He just had to cut that into bite sized pieces and make sure it wasn't rotten.

Red Hood had been incommunicado for almost a week now. Like Robin had said, not unusual in the slightest. He often went days, weeks, without calling someone in the family or picking up his phone when they called him. What was unusual, besides the skipping out of breakfast, was that he hadn't been active for that week either. Not a single Red Hood sighting. And that didn't happen unless Jason was out of town. Even when he had gotten shot in the stomach last year and Alfred had told him to stay in bed for at least two weeks, he'd been out a day later trying to help when half of Arkham broke out.

He'd called Roy and Kori. Jason wasn't with them. Besides, he'd left most of his gear in his safehouses. If he was leaving Gotham, he would have taken at least one spare helmet with him.

Being in the warehouse district narrowed things down, but it was still a big area to search.

They ducked in and out of at least four warehouses, with no luck, when Robin nudged Nightwing. "Look. Scarecrow."

And so it was. He wasn't dressed in his usual burlap sack. He was wearing simple attire, green dress shirt, slacks, and a lab coat. With his glasses perched on the end of his nose, he looked like any other college professor. Heck, the stack of notebooks and pens in his arms could even be materials he needed for class.

And now Dick was torn. Continue searching for Jason, who may have just forgotten what day it was, or go after Scarecrow, who was almost definitely up to something. Sighing, Nightwing aimed his grapple and followed after Scarecrow.

The man was muttering to himself, so Robin dropped a bug on him. The more information they had about what he was up to, the better chance they had to stop it. They ghosted onto the roof of the warehouse just as Scarecrow shouldered his way through the door. "Sorry that took so long. Of all the times to run out of writing materials."

There was someone else in there? Damn. If he had an assistant or a hired lackey, that made things a lot harder. The two birds quietly moved towards the skylight, peering down. It was filled to bursting with crates and shelves, which made things a little trickier. Crane set his notebooks on a table in the only clear space and took a seat beside it. Grabbing a notebook, he flipped it open and started writing. "So, tell me, how do you feel?" He looked up into on of the corners of the room that was out of sight from the skylight.

Whatever the reply was, it was inaudible, but seemed to make Crane happy. He started writing, getting three pages done before setting down his pen. "Alright then. Time for the next one." He pulled a little remote out of his pocket. "I'm so glad I set this up before hand. Wouldn't want you getting a hand on me." He pressed the button, then settled back in his chair, pen back in position over the notebook.

He didn't have to wait long. There was a bang, followed by muffled screaming. With a jolt, comprehension flooded Nightwing.

He had a person down there. Not an assistant. Not a thug. A lab rat. And he was testing his latest formula on whoever it was. He used a sonic device to shatter the windows, then slipped in, Robin following close behind. It wasn't as flashy as just breaking through the glass with a triple somersault, but it was less dangerous, and a lot fewer shards of glass to pull out of the crevices of his uniform later.

They dropped down and barely landed before they were attacking. They spent a few blows uninterrupted before Scarecrow got over the shock of suddenly having two vigilantes spoiling his work and started counterattacking. Really, the man looked like he was made of straw, but he was all wiry muscle, and surprisingly strong with it. Batarangs started flying, fear gas was released, rebreathers positioned.

Still, it wasn't long before he got knocked back into his own table, sending notebooks and blue pens flying everywhere. With a growl, he pushed himself to his hands and knees. "Damn you both! I wasn't even close to done yet."

And what a relief that was. Which ever hapless person he had stashed over there – Nightwing hadn't gotten a good look yet – would definitely be better off if the Scarecrow wasn't done. Maybe only two months of threapy.

Suddenly, a look of malice crossed Crane's face. His hand shot forward, too fast for Nightwing or Robin to stop, and grabbed something from under one of the notebooks. The remote! With a cry of victory, he pressed all of the buttons in quick succession. "And now I am! Do be a dear and leave the cameras running. I want to see this." Nightwing, shaking himself out of his stupor, tossed a sedative dart into the villain's neck. And then.

Screaming. Muffled, most likely due to a gag, but no less intense. Nightwing hadn't heard a sound like that since... well... ever. It sounded like death and pain and heartbreak. Quickly, he dashed towards the victim, leaving Robin to tie up Scarecrow. As he approached the person lying, _writhing_ , on the ground, he couldn't help but wonder at the vaguely familiar silhouette.

Wait.

No.

Please, God, no. It couldn't be.

Whoever it was had his arms taped from wrist to elbow behind his back, and his ankles and wrists cuffed. There was a box strapped to his neck, a pulsating green light blinking to red as Dick watched. It looked like some sort of automatic delivery system, injecting medicine, sedatives, or in this case, fear toxin, at the press of a button. And whoever it was was wearing dark grey body armor with a red bat emblazoned across the chest and a red domino mask. The suit was loose, hanging off of thin, malnourished limbs.

Dick stood, stunned, his brain taking in details, the dark hair with the shock of white mixed in, the leather jacket tossed into the corner of the room, the bit of dark scruff from a week of no shaving. One of the lenses had popped out of the mask, showing a green-blue eye. All of the details swam in his head, but refused to make a complete whole. Like looking at an unfinished puzzle. He could only guess at what the finished picture was.

Another scream, and the picture snapped into focus, into perfect HD, with surround sound. Jason, _Jason_ , curled into fetal position, then snapped out straight again, back arching. His one visible eye was wide, terrified, and it was that that finally had Dick moving.

"No, no, no, Little Wing, can you hear me?" He flicked his hands to the back of Jason's head, undoing the gag and pulling it out of his mouth. It resisted. The gag had been tied so tightly, Jason had screamed so much, that it had dug into the corners of his mouth, ripping them. Blood had soaked the gag and dried. Pulling it away reopened those injuries and blood streamed from Jason's mouth.

That wasn't his only injury. His glove-less wrists and boot-less ankles were almost destroyed from the cuffs. His suit was cut in several places, and there was a bullet wound in Jason's leg that looked like it was getting infected. He was severely dehydrated and looked like he hadn't eaten in a week.

He probably hadn't.

Scarecrow had meant for Jason to die here.

Another scream, this one not filtered by the gag. Frantically, Dick tore the tape off of his brother's arms, picking the locks on his bindings faster than he thought possible. As soon as Jason was free, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling.

"Ja-" Wait. Scarecrow had said cameras. "Red, Red, calm down, you'll be fine now."

"No!" The shout surprised Dick. Jason had who knows how many doses of fear toxin in his system. Liquid doses. The gas was bad enough when inhaled, but this had gone straight to his bloodstream, and it had been injected so close to his neck too. How was Jason still coherent enough to talk? "No, that's what you want me to think! I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but it won't work!"

With a distressed cry, Dick surged forward, to hug his brother, comfort him. But at his movement, Jason yelped, and backed up. There was a nail protruding from the crate behind him, but Jason ignored it, ignored when it tore through the skin on his back, and just kept moving with his spine pressed to the crates, away from Dick. "Red, please, it's me! Nightwing!"

There was a moment of near silence, filled with Jason's ragged breathing, Robin's footsteps as he finished with Scarecrow and padded up behind Dick, and just a tinge of hope. It was shattered by a sudden burst of loud, mad, broken laughter.

"Nice try Joker, but I won't fall for that one again! You're a terrible actor, you know that?"

Jason thought he was the Joker. And what did he mean again? "Red, I'm not Joker, I'm Nightwing, your brother! Nightwing, the first Robin, Goldie, Dickhead!" He listed off the names, hoping that one of them, any of them, would spark a positive reaction.

"Really?" Why did that one word, the flash of recognition in Jason's eye, send shivers down Dick's spine? "If you insist. But if you're Robin, then I must be Joker. That's how this works, right?" And without warning, a wide grin spread across his mouth and he attacked.

Jason was injured, dehydrated, and starving, but fueled by fear and mad intensity. It was much harder than it should have been for Robin to pull Jason off of Dick, and even more difficult when he'd turned on Damian instead. Somehow in the scuffle, Jason had picked up a crowbar and smacked it across Dick's jaw. Not with enough force to break anything, but enough to knock him back. All the while laughing, laughing, _laughing_. It was the most frightening thing Dick had ever heard.

Finally, Dick managed to get Jason pinned. "Robin, go find some rope."

"Why can't we just sedate him? It would be easier to drag the fool back that way."

"No! We can't know how the sedative will react to the drugs already in his system! Just get the rope and call B to bring the car!" Batman was investigating some smuggling ring, over by the docks. Luckily, that wasn't too far away.

When Robin returned, with a long length of heavy rope slung over his arm, he reported, "He's on his way. I also radioed Gordon. He'll be here to pick up Scarecrow soon."

Dick nodded. Good. Hopefully before Batman was able to work Scarecrow over too much.

They ran into a problem tying Jason up. Dick wasn't able to let Jason go without the second Robin trying to run off, so they ended up tying the two of them together. After a few minutes of consideration, Dick instructed Damian to loop some rope around the bottom of Jason's jaw, up and over his head, tying his mouth closed. If Jason kept laughing like this, with the corners of his mouth already split open, then soon he'd have a bigger smile than Joker's.

They lay there, Jason secure in his arms, his back pressed to Dick's chest. From this position, he had a very good view of the little box attached to the side of his little brother's neck. As he had thought, it was an automatic delivery system, hooked directly to his carotid artery. When Scarecrow pressed the button, it would deliver whichever toxin he was testing straight to Jason's brain. The thought made him shudder.

Not as much as how many cartridges of formula the thing held. There was twenty spaces, twenty variations of fear toxin for Scarecrow to test. He didn't know how many had been tested before Nightwing and Robin had shown up. He didn't know how many Jason was under right now. He didn't know _anything_.

Well, they would hopefully know soon. Robin had been busy while Dick had been inspecting the box. He'd pulled down all the cameras, gathered the notebooks and the tape recorders. Crane was a meticulous note taker, which had saved them more than once. Hopefully, it would save Jason this time too.

Dick stiffened as Jason shuddered. Abruptly, the muffled chortles cut off, replaced by a keening sound. With the one free hand that Damian had so graciously left him, Dick reached up and pulled the rope off of Jason head. "Little Wing?"

"Bruce?" The sound was small, fragile. "Where are you?"

"He's on his way Little Wing. Don't worry." Just another few minutes. Jason could hold on that long, right?

The next sentence broke Dick's heart, just from the tone of voice. "It's dark." Jason's hands twitched, stopped by the bindings. "No, I have to get out!" Jason started thrashing, pulling against the bindings with all he had. Fearful that Jason would hurt himself, Dick scrabbled at the knot, letting the rope fall away. But once they were free, Jason just rolled off of Dick, his arms going out to his sides only to be stopped by an invisible wall. They carefully maneuvered until they were stopped a few inches in front of his face by another wall. Almost as if he were in a...

... box. His coffin.

Frantically, Dick grabbed at Jason's arms, trying to pull them out of the box the toxin had put him in, to show him that it was just in his mind. But his arms didn't move. How could they? He was buried in a coffin with solid, unmovable, wooden walls. And arms couldn't pass through wooden walls, no matter how real they were.

Batman chose this moment to screech to a halt outside, dashing into the warehouse without turning off the engine. The moment Jason caught sight of his cowled head, his tears stopped, and he started screaming again. "No! No, you were late!"

The words froze Batman in place, but Jason wasn't done. "You didn't come, didn't care! You've never cared! I'm just the failure, the forgotten!" Jason flinched as if struck. He moved his arms, warding off invisible blows.

Thankfully, Batman wasn't one for overlong hesitation. He swooped in, scooping Jason into his arms and made for the exit, his other two children following behind him. Jason shouted and thrashed. Once they made it to the car, he deposited Jason in the back seat and leapt behind the wheel. "Robin, passenger seat. Start going through the notebooks, find out which antidotes we need. Nightwing, stabilize him."

Dick nodded and dived into the back, pulling Jason into his lap. He was still flinching, crying out in pain as if the crowbar that killed him was still there, slamming into him. Between cries, he called out for Batman to save him, and asking his mother why. Why she had betrayed him to the Joker.

They peeled out of the warehouse district. Over Jason's mutterings and cries, Dick could hear the sirens as Gotham's finest went to arrest his abuser. It was a relief, but a vindictive part of Dick was really hoping Scarecrow would wake up, say something to piss the cops off and get shot for it. A large part.

Half way home, Jason started speaking again. "Who...?"

"It's me Little Wing. Dick. Nightwing. Are you alright?" Stupid question, but it had to be asked.

Jason didn't even hear the question. "Nightwing. But I killed him." Tears started flowing down Jason's face. "I killed him and Robin and all the Batgirls and the Pretender and Bats and Alfred and oh God."

What? "No, you didn't Jay! I'm right here!"

"I did. I went into the Pit and came back broken and I thought breaking them would fix me and it didn't."

"Jason, no, I'm right here, please Little Wing, look at me."

And he did, with dead, lifeless eyes. "You don't underst- get it, you don't know, war, it's a war, and it's always going, and it's me against the Pit and I lost and now they're dead and it's still war." His speech was becoming fragmented. "The Pit wants me, needs me to rip, tear, destroy, I have to make everyone they have to suffer like but they wouldn't appro- I don't think I can but I have to, must, need to keep fighting it."

Dick didn't know what to do. So he just pulled Jason close and started running his fingers through his hair. "It's alright Jay. Calm down. We're all still alive and you're still fighting. You'll be fine."

"If I stop, ha, the Pit takes haha over and then I can't controhohahahahol myself anymore and sometimes I don't can't shouldn't want to, sometimes I just want to let loose but I can't I don't and everything hahahahahurts and hahahaHAHAHA _HAHAHAHA_!"

They popped open the canopy and laughter filled the Cave, startling the bats. Alfred rushed up with a gurney, one of the ones with straps on it thank God. With how Jason was shaking, twitching, laughing, _laughing_ , he wouldn't be able to stay on a regular gurney. They strapped him down and wheeled him to the various analysis machines. Bruce started up the brain scan, taking blood samples while Alfred cut the over-large suit off of Jason's limbs.

He looked horrible. The suit had covered all the bruises and broken bones Jason had had. There wasn't a patch of skin that was its original colour. It was surprising Jason had been able to move at all, was still able to move.

Bruce sent Dick and Damian out of the room, to go shower, to _wait_. Which they did. And as soon as they finished, they had their ears pressed to the sound-proof medbay door, trying to hear something, anything. When Tim ventured down the stairs, woken by all the noise, and they filled him in on what had happened, he joined them. After an hour, they started alternating between listening and reading Scarecrow's notebooks.

The sound-proofing was really good. All they got was the occasional incredibly quiet scream. It must be deafening inside the room.

Finally, four hours later, the door opened, and an exhausted Bruce and Alfred walked out. Alfred went to fetch some refreshments, not because he thought they needed them, which they did, but because he needed to do something, something familiar, something calming. And nothing was more calming than tea and cookies.

So it was up to Bruce to deliver the report. "He's asleep now. We found a sedative that shouldn't react with the toxins. Six broken bones, all a week old. We had to rebreak and reset two of them. We have him on saline, nutrition and antibiotic drips. Stitches to the corners of his mouth, his leg, and his back. A few of his organs were shutting down, but they should be fine now."

"And..." Dick swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "And mentally?"

A sigh. That wasn't a good sign. "There's no way to know until he wakes up. And that won't be for a few days at least."

Dick nodded. Bruce waved them into the room, so they could sit by Jason while Batman went over Scarecrow's notes.

They sat. They sat until Damian fell asleep, exhausted by a long patrol and the stress of seeing one of his older brothers break. Until Tim brought Damian upstairs, claiming the need to sleep as well. He had been awake for the past three days looking into an old murder case and its relationship to a new one that was following the same modus operandi. Until it was Just Dick, siting beside his brother.

With shaking fingers, he opened a pouch on his belt and drew out a small bundle. It was a set of gloves, well padded, but without removing dexterity. They would fit like a second skin, a second skin with steel over the knuckles and a red stripe down the middle and through two fingers.

Yesterday, it would have been funny. Jason had constantly made fun of him for his finger stripes. But Dick knew he would have worn these. Made some excuse about how his old ones had gotten worn out and that he was only wearing these until he got them replaced. Jason would have been lazy about it, switched them out for a "less lame" pair when these gloves had gotten worn out themselves.

Carefully, Dick placed the gloves under Jason's hand, sitting helpfully on top of the blankets. Then he covered the whole with his own hands. This wasn't how this day was supposed to go. They were supposed to have breakfast, take a walk to the outdoor market, laugh as they looked at the blades and guns being sold as "decorative" (it wasn't the store owner's fault if the customer used them for something besides their intended purpose, right?), go to some violent zombie movie where Jason would cheer for the undead and Dick would laugh and the other movie-goers would shush them. They would go on patrol and Jason would use less fatal methods for just today, and at the end of the night, while they were sitting on top of Wayne Enterprises just looking at the city lights, Dick would give him the gloves. Jason would have insulted Dick's fashion choice a bit, but he wouldn't have meant a word. Then they would have gone their separate ways for the evening.

Tears dripped onto the back of Dick's hands.

"Happy birthday Little Wing."

* * *

 **AN: Haha, I'm awful. It actually is Jason's birthday today. And I give him fear toxin as a present. Terrible.**

 **This might be continued, and if it is, it'll probably be Jason's point of view. Not sure yet. Hm.**

 **Read and enjoy!**


	2. Crimson Tincture

**Chapter 2**

 **Crimson Tincture**

* * *

 _This chapter is rated M for extreme unhappiness! And violence and just plain old bad times. I warned you._

* * *

His communicator buzzed. Again. Honestly, why did he even keep the thing? He never used it unless Dick buzzed it enough to annoy him. Like now. "What do you want Nightwing?"

" _Just a friendly reminder for our breakfast next week!_ " His voice was bright, cheerful. Too cheerful, especially this early. Well, technically it was late, but Jason had just woken up a half hour ago.

He snorted. "Like I could forget. You've given me two dozen 'friendly reminders' in the past four days. I'm going to start ignoring all your calls if you keep it up." Or start leaving his comm. at home. One of the two.

Dick just laughed. " _Whatever you say. I'll leave you alone. But seriously, don't forget._ "

"Yeah yeah, circle the date. Even if I do forget, you're just going to show up on my doorstep at some ungodly hour with a basin of pancake batter."

" _And fruit! Lots of fruit!_ "

"Not before 10! Some people enjoy sleep after a long patrol."

He laughed in a way that said "I'm totally knocking on your door at 9:55 just to annoy you", then signed off. Jason just shook his head and jumped off the roof he was perched on. The warehouse district wouldn't clear itself of crooks by itself, would it?

An hour later, he decided to take a breather on a deserted stretch of rooftop. Four different gangs had had their drugs stored here and there were four new places for the Gotham Fire Department to hose down. Not bad for an hour's work. And only one injury. Some thug had gotten lucky, and popped a round into his leg. The bleeding had already stopped. Still, he should get home and stitch it before it reopened and he bled out. But for right now, he was going to sit here, pull his helmet off and breathe some unfiltered air.

After all, Dick wouldn't be happy if he missed their breakfast. And neither would Jason actually. But he would never admit it and if anyone dared to claim that he was looking forward to the day, he would tear out their tongue and use it as a coin purse.

Not even kidding.

Then again, tongues made terrible coin purses. Not a lot of space.

Breakfast with his brother. Not something he'd thought would ever happen again. But his relationship with the rest of the Bats was improving by leaps and bounds.

There was a hiss below him and a gunshot from behind. The bullet missed, knocking into his helmet and sending it flying off the building. Jason stood, whirling, just as a second shot hit him in the chest. It didn't make it past the Kevlar, but the force of it broke three of his ribs. And sent him careening off the building.

It wasn't a tall building. Not enough time to pull out his grapple and swing to safety. No ledges to grab. All he could do was cover his head, land in a roll, and pray.

He landed fine. Winded, broken arm, but fine. But the air down here smelled funny. Not the regular Gotham, something-died-here-recently funny either. Kind of like a...

That hiss. Someone tossed a sedative bomb down... here...

* * *

He woke up to laughter. "Well, it's not often I get a lab rat like you! Let's get started, shall we?" He couldn't actually reply. He was gagged, a rope winding its way around his mouth. From the way his skin shifted when he blinked, there were sensors taped to his head.

Scarecrow was walking towards him, obviously thinking he was an easy target with his hands and feet cuffed. Big mistake. As soon as Scarecrow was in arm's length, Jason maneuvered his hands from behind his back, over his legs and to his front. Grabbing Scarecrow by the collar, he slammed the small man's head into the floor.

Desperately, Scarecrow released another sedative bomb. Jason tried to run, to get out of the cloud, but Scarecrow grabbed him by the chain holding his ankles together. He landed with a solid _thud_ and the air was knocked out of him, only to be replaced by... gas... crap...

* * *

The next time he woke, his wrists and ankles were still cuffed. But there was duct tape winding around his forearms. So, Scarecrow could learn from his mistakes. "Excellent. You're awake. You know, this doesn't actually work as well when you're unconscious? You have to be awake if I'm going to record my observations properly." Scarecrow started towards him again, syringe at the ready.

Well. Jason was at the ready too. He pivoted as best he could, swinging his feet like a cudgel. Not very efficient, but it had Scarecrow backing up a few steps. "Hmm. I can see you're going to be difficult about this. Very well. I'll just have to get creative."

Another wave of sedative gas rolled towards him. He held his breath as best as he could, so Scarecrow walked up and kicked him in the stomach.

Not a...gain...

* * *

"Finally done! And it's hooked up properly. Very nice."

Scarecrow was strapping something to his neck. Jason lashed out, as much as he was able, but Scarecrow jumped back and out of the way. "Now, everything is in place. Let's get started." He turned to a group of thugs and men in suits behind him. "Please take notes class. This will be on your final exam." He pulled out a remote and pressed a button.

Something stabbed into his neck and a cold sensation flooded the spot, heading up. The needle retreated once its purpose was fulfilled, but Jason didn't notice.

He was too busy staring at the Joker, walking past Scarecrow, dragging a crowbar along the floor. " _Why hello there bird boy~! It's been a long time, hasn't it?_ " His voice was distorted, must be whatever the Scarecrow gave him. A twisted laugh erupted from the clown's mouth. " _Shall we play again?_ "

Joker swing his crowbar, sending Jason flying. His already broken ribs screamed.

(Distantly, he heard Scarecrow address the thugs. "And now we see a typical case of mind over matter. Red Hood believes he is being assaulted by his worst fear, and his body reacts accordingly.")

The crowbar came down, again and again. Only bruising hits, but they hurt.

("Now you, Gordy was it? Yes. Take this broom handle and hit him in the leg with it. Let's see what happens when his fear is made real.")

With a grin of maniacal pleasure, Joker swung again, slamming the crowbar into his thigh. The force of it broke his femur, filling the sudden silence with a sickening, wet snap. But he refused to scream. He didn't the first time, and he refused to do so now.

("This formula is specifically developed to make the target relive his worst physical assault. See how a simple touch with the broom broke the vigilante's leg? Mind over matter is very powerful folks. Bidding for a vial starts at $4000.")

The people watched dispassionately or with interest as the Joker continued beating him. Still, it was easier this time. At least it was strangers...

* * *

He woke to a sharp pain in the side of his neck, and confusion. Where...?

Right. Scarecrow got him. He was in a warehouse. There weren't many other places with crates stacked to the ceiling.

There was blinking lights in the crates. Cameras. He was being watched. Still, he might as well try and get free while he was alone. There was a nail protruding from that crate that should do fine. Scooting back towards it, he hoisted himself to his knees and turned his back. Tricky. This would have to be done by feel, which was probably the worst way to do this. Nothing for it though. Carefully, he scraped at the tape holding his forearms together, hoping to fray it.

Footsteps. He worked faster, wincing as the nail bit into his arm. But a flash of bright blue froze him in place.

A weak smile crossed his face. Someone had removed the gag? When had that happened? "Nightwing."

And there was that smile Jason knew. Dick's voice was a bit distorted though. Must be something wrong with his hearing. " _Yeah Little Wing. It's me._ "

"Great. Could you give me a hand? I can get the tape off, but Scarecrow took my jacket so I have nothing to pick the locks with." He rattled his wrists behind him, allowing the chain to jangle.

" _Don't think so Little Wing._ "

What?

" _You see, we don't need you anymore._ " Arms crossed over the blue bird on Dick's chest.

"What are you talking about Nightwing? You said it yourself. Never give up on family." There was a desperate plea to his voice that he didn't like.

" _It's true Jason._ " Bruce. He walked in, making less than no noise. " _Besides. How many times have you said you weren't part of this family?_ "

Too many times. "Well... yeah, but..."

" _Oh stop._ " Demon Brat too? " _All of this sniveling is pathetic._ "

Then Pretender's voice. " _No wonder you didn't last as Robin. Look at yourself. Taken down by Scarecrow of all people. At least have the decency to die before you tarnish the Robin name any more._ "

No. Why were they saying this? It wasn't like he didn't deserve it, or hadn't thought it himself a thousand thousand times before, but he'd never thought he'd _hear_ it.

And then Oracle, Barbara, wheeled herself in. " _You never were as good as Dick was. Heck, I could probably beat you, and I can't walk. How worthless can you get?_ "

" _Ha! I was a better Robin than you. And I only had the traffic light suit for what, a month?_ " Stephanie too? She laughed. " _Look at your face! I've never seen such a pitiful expression!_ "

Cass walked in as well. She didn't say anything, but she had always been better at non-verbal communication. And every muscle in her body screamed disappointment.

" _Honestly, Master Bruce should have known better. He found you stealing the tires from the car. It was a terrible start that just went downhill from there. You're no better than gutter trash.._ " No, not Alfred. Alfred had never given up on him.

Tears flooded down Jason's cheeks. He didn't know why he had expected any different. He tried to kill half of these people. More than once. He'd shot at them, beaten them, torn their hearts and their hope and their trust in him six ways to Sunday and still they had come back with open arms and smiles. This was what he deserved, every word. He had pressed them to give up on him, to throw him out, and they had.

He'd been expecting it, so why did it hurt so much?

Everyone's peace said, Batman walked forward, stopping when he was kneeling in front of Jason. And he didn't smell like he normally did, like leather and sweat and just a bit of Bruce Wayne's cologne, but the words, the words were all ones that Jason had imagined him saying, when he was Robin, when he returned a disappointment. " _I never should have taken you in. I regret every moment I spent training you. You weren't worth the effort. It would be better for all of us if you died here._ " Batman rose, pushed back his cape where it had fallen in front of his shoulder, and walked away. " _Goodbye Jason._ "

And like the vampires the people of Gotham thought them to be, the Batfamily melted into the darkness. There was another prick on his neck and Jason sank gratefully into the oblivion of darkness.

* * *

Nightwing was back! Jason felt hope surge through him. His brother was wearing the same reassuring smile he always did. Maybe he had changed his mind?

He tried to call out, but the rope was back in place.

What was that in his hand?

With a laugh, Nightwing swung the crowbar. It hit Jason square in the jaw, cracking it, then slammed down again on his chest. The laughter continued, as if Tim had just told a joke or they were watching a comedy on movie night.

SLAMHAHHAHAHATHUDTHUDCRACKHAHAHHAHAHA

Jason struggled, trying to call out to his brother, to ask him why. The rope dug into the corners of his mouth, blood ran down his face, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the sight of his brother, grin stretching over his face. The red spattering the blue stripe of his symbol. The steady thud of metal on flesh. The searing pain. The taste of copper in his mouth.

Someone had done something to Dick. Because no matter what Jason did, no matter what he said, Dick would never do this. _Never_.

Unless it wasn't Dick.

Slowly, Nightwing started changing. His laughter became higher in pitch, his skin paled from tan to white. Dark hair swinging over his eyes got shoved back, turning green as he pushed his hand through it. The black and blue was replaced by a purple and green three-piece, the domino mask fell from his eyes.

" _Hello Boy Blunder! My Little Wing, dear, precious Jaybird! Oh, but not so precious anymore, are you? All abandoned by the people you abandoned first! Ha! This is just too good!_ "

Joker, not Nightwing, how had he thought that was Nightwing, dropped the crowbar, choosing instead to kick him while he was down. Jason cried out, the contractions of his own cheek muscles tearing the corners of his mouth open wider.

" _No one loves you Birdie! Batman was so glad when I killed you the first time. He didn't even try to get you out. You're nothing to him, to anyone. Which begs the question,_ " slamSLAMCRACKHEEHEEHEEthudcrackSLAM and the Joker leaned in close so he was right next to Jason's ear. When he spoke, it wasn't the Joker's voice. " _Why did you even bother coming back at all?_ " Batman swung the crowbar.

The next thing that broke wasn't his bones or his skin or his blood vessels.

* * *

He was free. Mostly. There was a chain on his ankle, bolting him to the middle of the circle. The circle of crates, stacked from floor to ceiling, surrounding him and eight other people, faces lost in shadow.

Suddenly, it wasn't stacks of crates. It was a circular cave surrounding a circular pool of green liquid.

No.

 _No!_

This couldn't be! Not the Pits! He'd worked so hard, _so hard_ to free himself of the Pit's influence, of the madness, the rage. Going back in would

but it was too late. He was already falling.

He surfaced sputtering. The eight around him were suddenly thrown into full detail and

Cass quiet, so quiet, like a mouse, but a lion and look, Damian, Little D, thinks himself so high and mighty but his throne topples and Tim brains and

brains and coffee and Steph, so bright and shiny and

purple, not like Dick's blue, but close and bright as well and there was blue and blue and birds and blue and with Dick always came

wheels and glasses and Barbara and look Alfred with a broom and a

plate of cookies

and a look

and Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, it's always been Bruce with darkness and the night and justice and

why did they make him all so

ANGRY SO SO ANGRY AND

they were bright, even Bruce with the darkness and all he had left was

blood and pain

and darkness

and _green_

green like water, green like clowns, he had used to like green, right?

With a roar, he pushed himself to shore and it was easy, almost like there wasn't any Pit water at all and he jumped at the people who had been his fam- the people who had abandoned him, but he had left them first so did he deserve it?

The smallest went first. Simple, so simple, just dig his nails into the arrogant vocal cords and _pull_ and oops, took the trachea too, poor little - hahah and next was

green like eyes, like eyes behind glass and frames and knock, oops, on the ground and stomp and computers are useless in a fist fight didn't you know, no? no, because brains aren't good for knowing when they're on the floor and nothing is -cle an any more

clean, the oldest, he was easy, no defense, no armor. The tray of cookies, yum, no, don't eat, maybe poison, but the _tray_ , ooh. Grab, the edge was dull but it would do and SLICE and redredred. -red. Not so prim anym-

And then birds fly free on blue wings but the -wing s had to be clipped so he grabbed the wings and twisted and pulled and there was a pair of pops and the wings were useless, flightless birds were useless, put down like a dog and kick to the skull and concave.

Hm. Red plus blue is purple. That makes sense. Grab purple and slam it into the cave wall and the cave wall and the cave wall and purple plus wall is red apparently and the red was on his hands and the wall and Spoil- ing the green of the Pit

math, who likes math and probabilities and brains and coffee and he should have some coffee, no coffee, maybe he already had some, he could get it and feed it to him because that guy needs some joe so he used his nails to open his stomach and oops, no coffee red red Red - red and dark

Dark, so dark, pillar of darkness, but not -man, -girl yes. She saw his intention and it scared her and it scared him but he couldn't stop because _they_ had abandoned him, left him to die, explosion, crowbar, _laughter_ , sitting on a crate smoking and her neck went cracksnap and that was a funny angle

dark, darker, and -man, not girl or boy or elder and ouch, punch in the shoulder or stab in the shoulder? but it didn't matter so he laughed and the sound grated on his throat, so dry, so he pushed down the darkness and punchgiggleslamlaughpunchpunchpunch oh, concave again

and he looked over the everything and everything was red and green like Christmas but he hadn't had a good Christmas in no, not since before and before and before that was bad and so he laughed because this used to be his famil- but now they were gone and it was his fault because of _course_ it was his fault, who else could it be and he laughed and laughed and cried and laughed and there was a pinch

in his neck and

suddenly

Things were less funny and more sad and

shatte

red

and maybe darkness was better

what had he done, why was, what, was there a way back, he wanted to go back, back, backbackback before the crowbar, before the wheels before before _this_ so he wasn't a curse, a plague to the ones he had loved once and didn't love and loved again and before

or maybe he should just stop stop trying to hold together to fight to carry there wasn't anything left because they were all gone and stop

so let's do that, shall we?

* * *

 **AN: _Walks in one year late with Starbucks_. Hiya! Have a chapter. **

**I will be honest, I've had this written for a while. But I'm having a lot of trouble writing the next chapter. Assuming there is a next chapter... Just not entirely sure where to take it. Oh well.**

 **Really hoping I wrote the last bit alright. Hmm... _Sips hot chocolate._ **


	3. Negotiating with Terrorphiles

**Negotiating with Terrorphiles**

* * *

When Tim finally got to the Batcave after a long day at work – had to keep up appearances after all, even though being in charge of WE was the last thing he'd ever wanted with his life – he found Dick asleep on the keyboard. He had the video of Bruce's interrogation of Scarecrow open in one window, and what looked like eighty six pages of the letter F in another window. He was also drooling on the space bar.

Tim raised an eyebrow and grabbed the pillow Alfred had stuck in a nearby drawer for situations just like this one and put it on the desk next to the keyboard. Carefully, he moved Dick over. Then, after deleting all eighty six pages of F's, he read over the report Dick had been writing and decided enough was enough.

A week ago, Jason had been pulled out of the Batmobile laughing and screaming. He'd spent the next three days threatening cardiac arrest, then the next four in a coma. Tim could see him now, if he leaned back a bit, with a machine helping him breathe and much thinner than he'd been when they'd brought him in. He was getting nutrients now, but he was still shedding muscle mass like it was his job.

Six days ago, Batman had gone to GCPD to interrogate Scarecrow. He had learned nothing useful, and ended up getting banned from GCPD lockup for the rest of the year for assaulting a prisoner.

Tim glanced at Dick, sound asleep and likely to stay that way. He'd gotten about an hour a day since they'd found Jason. If he was in REM sleep, which he was, he probably wouldn't wake for another four hours. Still, Tim pulled a set of headphones out of a drawer and stuck them in. No need to tempt fate.

There was exactly one portion of the interview video that Tim needed. Bruce had set Dick on analyzing every word, intonation and movement Crane made, hoping to glean some more information out of him. It wouldn't work. Tim had sent the video to Cass, and she'd told him that Crane had been smugly confident the entire time. Dick hadn't gotten very far before falling asleep, so Tim fast forwarded to the part he needed.

It was right near the end, starting when Batman slammed his fist on the table. "Talk Crane! Or you'll be eating through a tube for the next six months!" The standard threats.

And they'd had the standard response. At least, the standard response for someone who went after Batman for _fun_. "Dreadfully sorry Batman," Crane leaned back slightly in his seat, knowing he held all the cards and showing not a one of them, "but perhaps if I had been able to finish my research, if I had had time to properly categorize my serum's effects, I may have been able to help you."

That had been the tipping point for Batman. Jason had been Scarecrow's prisoner for almost a week, and the thought was almost enough to turn Tim's stomach. And he didn't even like Jason. To tell Bruce that he should have left Jason there _longer_... Yeah, Crane had been asking for it.

He watched the next part too, only because it was the only place where his smug smile cracked. The next words sent shivers down Tim's spine. "Are you afraid?" The moment of panic, the instinct to fight or flee that was nearly impossible to suppress, cleared from Crane's face. Instead, his smile grew wider and his eyes lit up in triumph. "Does the Batman, feared by the fearless lowlifes of Gotham, fear the madness of one crime lord?"

Batman didn't get a chance to respond. The cops swarmed the room, separating them, and the video ended.

Tim had heard all he needed to. Dick was still logged in, so Tim used his ID to print the pages he wanted. The pages went into a folder, which went into a backpack, which fit nice and flat under his cape. After a moment's thought, he grabbed the collar that had been around Jason's neck when they'd found him and stuck it in the bag as well.

The sound of his motorcycle woke Dick up, but by the time he had turned around, Red Robin was long gone.

The road to Arkham was as familiar as it was long. That is to say, very. Tim used the time to tell himself that this was a terrible idea. That breaking into Arkham wasn't worth it. That a few months of marginally good behavior wasn't enough to exonerate Jason of his past crimes. That Tim would never forgive Jason for what he had done. And if the scar on his chest twinged painfully, telling him he was being petty, well, he thought it was fully justified. Jason could rot.

But if he did, then it would tear Tim's world apart around him. He'd seen it, last time. Batman using the same brutality and recklessness that he now berated Red Hood for. Nightwing running away to the Titans or the circus, avoiding the Manor like it carried a plague. He had no illusions that it would happen again if Jason died, never mind that Jason had been the black sheep of the family for years.

And so, Tim pulled up to Arkham Asylum's main gate and let himself in. When he got to the desk, he said, "I need to speak to Scarecrow."

The guard raised one bored eyebrow. He looked Tim up and down, apparently deciding whether he would be an annoyance today. Technically, the vigilantes weren't allowed in Arkham. But that was only technically. In reality, they did it all the time and the guards barely searched them anymore. But, sometimes, one of the guards would get a bee in his bonnet and deny them access.

Eventually, this one decided it would be too much bother to say no. "Fine. Crane only, please leave all sharps and chemicals in this," he pulled a bin out and plopped it on the counter, "and don't call him Scarecrow. The docs don't like it when we reinforce their delusions."

"Got it." The docs said the same thing about the local vigilantes, but they also didn't have any other names to call them by. Which Tim was very grateful for. He didn't want a bunch of doctors who were barely good at their jobs psychoanalyzing him behind his back, but he knew it was happening. If they knew who he was, he knew for a fact that they'd try and psychoanalyze him to his face. Probably at his house.

The cell door closed with a deep thud behind him. Tim suspected that it was on purpose, to make the inmates think that they'd never leave. Which probably didn't help their recovery, but Tim wasn't a psychologist. The only psychologist in the room was sitting in the corner of his cell, staring at Tim with a wide smile on his face. "Hello Red Robin. Come to do what your mentor cannot?"

Tim quirked a grin at him. "Only always. I hear that you have knowledge that could help Red Hood?"

"Of course. But wait. Isn't Red Hood a criminal?" Scarecrow smiled wider at Tim's barely perceptible wince. "Why do you care so much?"

"We don't." It was kind of a lie. Tim didn't. Not really. Not Bruce and Dick cared, so Tim had to as well. "But no one deserves what you did."

Crane chuckled. "If he's lost his mind, you should put him in here with me. I'll take good care of him."

"I'm sure you would," Tim said, "you may even cure him, as smart as you are, but we'd like to try first if you don't mind."

The man preened under the praise. "Pity. He was such a good test subject. Very well. You do know that I'll need access to my notes? Even genius such as mine can't work without all the variables."

Tim slipped his backpack from his back. "It's all in here." Scarecrow lunged for it, would have reached for it greedily if he hadn't been in a straitjacket. "Ah ah, not yet. I have to untie you first. And, if you behave-"

"Oh? Scared of what I'll do when you let me free?"

Red Robin threw his most unamused look at Scarecrow. "No. It'll just be a hassle to get answers out of you if your behaviour forces me to knock you unconscious. If you do behave though, I'll tell you something that'll make all of this," he gave the backpack a fond pat, "seem worthless."

Crane's breath caught. Tim could see the gears moving in his head, the greed on his face. "What? What is it? A formula? An equation?"

"You'll just have to find out. So we have a deal? Help in exchange for a look at the notes, and if you don't try and escape or attack me-"

"You'll tell me what you know! Yes! I accept!" They couldn't shake to seal the bargain, not with the straitjacket in the way, but Crane's nod was good enough. He tended to keep his bargains, when they suited him.

So Tim unbuckled Scarecrow's straitjacket and gave him the folder from the bag.

The notes were an extensive file of Jason's reaction to the serum. It included every scan Bruce had made, which was a lot, and pages and pages of blood work. Bruce had insisted on samples being taken every hour. There were also observer reports, which were made when Jason had a particularly violent nightmare and consisted of what he said, if it was coherent, and how long the nightmare was. Those had been... painful to type. Definitely not something Tim wanted to live through again.

There was a long twenty minutes of Crane reading the notes. Sometimes interspersed with comments like, "Oh that's interesting," or, "I've never seen that reaction before," as well as many hums and haws and self congratulation. Red Robin stayed on guard the whole time. Scarecrow may be as thin as straw, but he was tricky, and deceptively strong.

"Did you bring my device?" Scarecrow pointed at a diagram on page 43, one of the box that had been strapped to Jason's neck.

Tim pulled it out of his bag. "You can look at it, but I'll be holding it." Scarecrow nodded, motioning for Tim to open the ports. Twenty of them. Nine doses of sedative. One port full of saline used to sterilize the needle after use. Eight for the first four serums, two doses each. Thanks to Crane's notes and recordings, they knew exactly what those did.

The first formula was for past physical injuries. Whatever trauma the victim had had in their life, they would relive it. From that and the video, it was pretty obvious what Jason had seen. Joker. And because his mind had believed it was real, he'd broken a few bones before the sedative kicked in. Mind over matter could be terrifying.

The second formula was, according to Scarecrow, believable betrayal by the ones the victim held most dear. It was the believable part that caused Dick to rage and break lab equipment, and rush to Jason's unconscious side and shower him with words of encouragement that he couldn't hear. From the audio, Jason had thought that Nightwing wouldn't help him escape. That he was no longer part of the family. From the way his face had turned, jumping from one empty space to another, it wasn't just Nightwing saying these things.

Tim had counted the number of "people" Jason had looked at. Eight. Just enough for their immediate family. The same number of people in the arena simulation.

The third formula was a combination of the first two. It was designed to break the mind. To shatter it to pieces. Which would make it easier for the fourth formula to do its work.

The fourth one was designed to make a person kill. To snap and destroy all that the victim loved. Hence the arena of crates and the eight dead bodies Batman had found in the pier closest to the warehouse.

But the fifth formula, the one that Jason had gotten two doses of, was an unknown. They didn't know what it was supposed to have done by itself, let alone at double strength and mixed with four other toxins.

All of the ports lead to a needle which had been in Jason's carotid. All of the serums had gone directly to Jason's brain with no filter.

Scarecrow glanced into the container, noting that all the ports were completely empty, then returned to his notes. Tim stowed it away.

Another half hour later, Scarecrow put down his notes. "Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do to help. My original toxin worked its way out of my rats within twenty-four hours. Even mixed with the others, there's no reason for Red Hood to be in a coma. I must say though, it is a miracle he's still alive. Here, you said his heart nearly stopped?" He pointed to a part of the summary on the first page. "With the amount of stress he was under, his heart shouldn't have restarted."

Scarecrow looked the page over. "Perhaps if he recovers, he would make a good subject for other projects." He rubbed his chin. "He clearly has great stamina and will to survive."

Tim took the notes back, stowing them in his bag. Then he strapped Crane back into his jacket. "He does. Is there really nothing you can do for him?"

Crane shook his head. "There's no chemical reason for him to be in a coma. The liver and kidneys would have worked their way through all of my serums days ago. None of these were designed to be long lasting." That was one failing Scarecrow had never been able to work through. All his longest lasting toxins were also his least potent. "Now. I did my part. Tell me."

"Sure." Tim leaned forward, conspiratorially. "What I'm about to tell you will make all of this worthless." His hand brushed over the bag lightly. Crane was expecting a formula. Some compound that would make the five serums he tested on Jason seem like trivial garbage. He opened the zipper on the bag again, pulling out one of the pages Crane had spent long minutes mulling over. One of the pages with Jason's blood work. "Red Hood has been in the Lazarus Pit. It changed the composition of his blood, just enough for him to react differently to drugs, chemicals, and toxins, enough to make him an outlier. He is the absolute worst test subject you could have chosen."

When Red Robin leaned back, Crane was frozen, a look of abject horror all over his face. He was likely going through all the notes in his mind, looking for inconsistencies. Jason's Lazarus Syndrome was well known throughout the family, and had been well documented ages ago. The notes Tim had printed hardly referred to the condition, simply directing the reader to look up Med History R3-042 for more information.

It wasn't until he shut the door to Scarecrow's cell that the man started screaming.

All that work for nothing.

He'd never go after Red Hood as a subject again.

Tim leaned against the wall for a moment. Just a moment, to get his bearings, then he headed out. He collected his belongings, including the Red Robin disks that the guard had tried to sneak out. (They sold for a lot of money on eBay.) His phone showed fifteen missed calls and thirty seven texts, but he ignored all of them for the while. He needed to think.

The best thinking place – when it wasn't raining that is – was a crane overlooking the bay. High, lonesome, far enough from the city to only hear hints of traffic, close enough that the lights reached him. He could only use this place a few more times before Dick figured out it was one of his favourites, but until then, it was just what he needed.

Jason wasn't needed. When he'd died the first time, Bruce had gone insane. Tim had been the one to pull him out of that, but he knew Batman would never be the same. Now, Jason was alive. He was stable, but he was in a coma. And Bruce would stop at nothing to try and wake him up. But that was the thing, there was no way to wake him up. Medically, coma's were a mystery. Doctors hadn't found a reliable way to wake the comatose up. Even magically or mentally, nothing could be done. Bruce would probably call J'onn or Zatanna, but Tim knew that wouldn't work. Jason would wake up when he would wake up. And until then, he wasn't needed.

Gotham would be fine without the murdering crime lord. It wouldn't fall into chaos like it would if – like it had when – Batman died. It wouldn't fall apart like it had after the plague, after the earthquake. And eventually, when he accepted that the ghost who used to be his son wouldn't wake up, Batman would go back to patrol like he had before. So would Nightwing. So would Robin. So would Red Robin. It would be better if he didn't wake up.

It was probably cruel of him to think so, but it was the objective truth. The scar on his chest, where Jason had once stabbed him with a batarang reminded him that it might not be as objective as he claimed, but Tim ignored that. If Red Hood didn't wake up, then it would take him off the board without having to throw him into Arkham or Blackgate, both of which were proven to be horrible ideas.

And if Red Hood did wake up, well. Tim had done his part. If Scarecrow had had a deux ex machina to wake up Jason, he would have used it and then things could go back to how they had been. Jason shunning them, them shunning him back, guilt everywhere. Only talking to him on special occasions (like the birthday breakfast Dick had planned for Jason, so similar to the lunches he'd used to plan for Tim). It would have been easier, and well worth the risk Tim had taken when he'd given Scarecrow those files.

It was still worth the risk. But now, as his phone lit up for the eighth time since he sat down on the crane, he had to call Dick and explain why he'd taken the notes and how he had nothing to show for it. This time, when Dick called, he answered. "Hey. I can expl-"

" _Jason woke up_."

Tim raised his eyebrows. So Jason had chosen the easier option. Tim would have preferred better (although a rather large part of him felt guilty about that, because Dick and Bruce would never be happy about Jason's coma). "That's good."

And, because Jason had never chosen the easy option ever in his life, Dick said, " _He's gone. We need your help to find him. It's all hands on deck._ "

Tim sighed. "I'm on my way."

* * *

 **AN: Haha, whoops. I was supposed to post this a month ago. My bad.**

 **Some people might be angry about Tim's thoughts about Jason. Those people should know that in this continuity, Jason beat Tim up once and tried to kill him once. Jason's really not on great terms with anyone, although he wants to be. Dick sees that and is trying as well, hence the plans for Jason's birthday. Tim is more hesitant. Probably none of that will show up in the story, but we'll see where it goes in a year when my writer's block for this fic mysteriously lifts and I am able to write more than four disjointed sentences.**

 **Read and enjoy folks!**


End file.
